"Me neither," Crowley rasps. "Thought--hoped it would, thought about it all the bloody time, but--"

This babbling is interrupted by a sudden groan, his whole body shuddering as Aziraphale grips his hair, fingers tangling and holding and, intentionally or not, pulling a little. "Oh, oh fuck, do that again, with the hair--" His body lifts under Aziraphale's, and they're going to need to do something about that, about, about the clothes and the things that go under the clothes, but there's fingers in his hair and Aziraphale's breath in his mouth and it is so hard to think right now.